Further Down the Rabbit Hole
by Azure-Exile
Summary: A collection of Bleach drabbles and short oneshots. Story Four: Undue Inspiration. Poetry, for Isane, was a refuge, but she couldn't help feel she could be better. What she needed was inspiration.
1. Loser

**Further Down the Rabbit Hole  
**  
_Story 1: Loser  
_  
Rating: Teen for Safety  
Misc: General  
Pairings: None  
Disclaimer: There has been no change in the ownership of Bleach, thus, I don't own it.  
Summary: Isane lost, and lost, and lost, but perhaps that was better than the altenative.

* * *

Isane danced around her opponent gracefully, causing his momentum to carry him forward and beyond her. Before he could turn, she had already assumed an offensive stance, her Zanpakuto held ready to strike.

Her eyes immediately landed on the space between her opponent's first and second vertebrae. A slash there could sever the spinal cord and cause permanent paralysis, if not death. She did not lash out, however, and in an instant, her opponent had turned and faced her again.

Turning aside his downward strike with the flat of her Zanpakuto, she glanced at his forward leg. His leg was straining from the force of the strike and had stiffened at the knee. If she kicked it, the rigid nature of the knee would utterly fail to absorb the stress and would break violently. Instant victory.

Instead of kicking, she shivered and took several steps backward. Her opponent, unaware of his previous danger, bellowed and charged at her, as if she, a combat doctor, would lift an eyebrow at a person's yelling.

His Zanpakuto flashed through the air and Isane lifted her own to meet it. With the reverberate crash of colliding metal, her opponent stepped forward, using his far-superior strength to push her back.

She unwillingly realized that she had a clear shot at the man's left ventricle.

This continued as the man released a flurry of strikes, each a little more frenzied than the last. He was powerful; he was fast, and he was many things that she could never be. The fact still stood; however, that she was a doctor and, to her eyes, his body was an open book.

Strike to the jugular. Quick death due to blood loss. Not treatable.

Right Lung. Slow death due to blood pooling. Not treatable.

Left Temple. Near-immediate death. Not treatable.

She closed her eyes to dispel the images and, when she opened them again, she found her opponent's Zanpakuto hovering dangerously close to her left eye. "Good match, Isane-san," Abarai Renji said, smiling softly as he slipped Zabimaru back into his saya, "But you're too hesitant. If you see an opening you should just go for it."

Isane smiled weakly and bowed to her sparring partner, "O-Of course, Renji-san. Thank you."

And Renji wonders why Isane has never won a match.

A/N: Just a little Isane-love, everyone. Can't help but like her, can you?

This is just vthe first in acollection of drabbles I'm going to start from today. None of them'll be very long or even related, but I hope you'll like them anyway, as I'm going to be playing with my writing style and some wierd concepts. Please note, anything could come up in this collection, so I would read the top of each fic carefully. I have a second drabble typed up and I'll update it either later today or tommorow, depending when I can get on. I'm not at my house at the moment so my responses to everyone and everything will sorta-kinda suck.

This is my first drabble; however, that is no excuse for it to suck. If it does, please don't hesistate to tell me.  
Please review as all feedback is appreciated.

B-E


	2. In Dearest Memory

**Further Down the Rabbit Hole  
**  
_Story 2: In Dearest Memory  
_  
Rating: Teen for Safety  
Misc: Angst/Drama  
Pairings: None  
Warning: Character Death and Spoilers for H.M Arc.  
Disclaimer: I-and-I don't own Bleach. Blame the downpression of the man, man.  
Summary: The blond man finished carving the agonizingly familiar name into the grave marker, only one thought present in his mind. This had been his fault.

* * *

The blond man bowed his head seriously as the evening sun glinted dully off the modest black stone. "Kisuke-san?" a soft voice called, "You wanted to see me?"

Urahara Kisuke nodded and grinned at the little girl, though his smile seemed noticeably strained, "Come here for a little while, please, Ururu."

The black-haired girl complied and the two stood in comfortable silence for several minutes before Ururu noticed the name engraved on the stone. "W-Who is that, Kisuke-san?" she asked in a hushed voice, "Her last name is the same as mine."

Kisuke frowned and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, "She's your little sister, Ururu."

"Sister?" the girl repeated slowly, "I don't have a sister... do I?"

The blond haired man looked into the small girl's eyes and saw only a child's confusion, not the anger, fear, or despair that would have shone from an adult's. That was truly how it was meant to be, and that had been his greatest gift to her. His first gift to her, even before he had wrenched her soul from nothingness.

Eternal youth as a modsoul. The intelligence of an adult coupled with the boundless creativity and optimism of a child, unfettered by the disillusionment of adulthood. Those were his gifts to her. Even filled with guilt as he was, Ururu's eyes still brought a smile to the shop-owner's face. "Go inside and play, Ururu," he said, "I'll explain it later, I promise."

The girl seemed to hesitate but Kisuke's eyes made it clear that he wouldn't stand any argument. Not now. "Okay."

He watched her enter the shop out of the corner of his eye and sighed as he read the name on the grave marker yet again. It was all his fault.

There was no way he could have known, no way at all, but that didn't alleviate his guilt in the slightest. The day he was exiled, he had rushed out of his laboratory, the Gotei Thirteen at his heels, and had neglected the few seconds needed to take or destroy his blueprints. This was not an excuse, but the truth. That day, he had chosen his life over hers.

He should have known, being the 'genius' that he was, that his sick successor couldn't help but duplicate his experiments and pervert his design. He should have known that the insecure little bastard would have disabled her self-defense systems. He should have known – yes, he should have known – but he hadn't.

Ururu's little sister was the opposite of her in so many ways. Ururu was an eternal child, with a little splash of adulthood; her sister was an eternal adult, that never had a childhood. Ururu was created to be a beloved daughter; her sister was created, more likely, to be a slave to her father. Ururu had never lacked love, as he had made sure of that; while her sister had never gotten any.

What a sad, sad existence. Trapped with a man that didn't love her, never did, and hadn't hesitated when she died. Her only sin was to have been born.

Kisuke had never seen her, touched her, or even known her face. He didn't know her birthday, nor did he know how old she was. All he knew about her was what he had been told by Yoruichi following her death.

Regardless, she was still his daughter. A daughter he had doomed to hell, not intentionally, but due to a sorry lack of foresight. No matter how or why her life ended, and began, so unhappily, Kisuke knew that, in a roundabout way, it was still his fault.

So he took off his hat, stared at the name of the daughter he did not know, and resolved to love, even harder, the daughter that he did. With a final glance at the dull, black stone, Urahara Kisuke turned and walked back into his shop. He had a daughter to tend to. The sun's dying rays reached the stone; however, and the engraved words were still clear to see.

**_In Dearest Memory_**, the words said, _**Of Tsumugiya Nemu  
**_-

A/N: Hey everyone. This is just a short fic exploring what COULD have been if Nemu had actually died from Granz's attack in Hueco Mundo. I always felt that there was more between the two (Urahara and Nemu) than was immediately apparent. Honestly, I'm a little disappointed that Nemu lived through Granz's attack. It's not that I don't like her, because I do, but just because it seemed like such deus ex machina when she didn't..

I should be getting back into town tonight so that's all cool and I should get caught up with everything then.

This is my second drabble; however,that is no excuse for it to suck. If it does, please don't hesitate to tell me.  
Please review, as feedback is always appreciated.

B-E


	3. A Little Help

**Further Down the Rabbit Hole  
****  
**_Story 3: A Little Help_

Rating: K-Plus for Safety  
Misc: General  
Pairings: Very slight IchiRuki if you read it that way  
Disclaimer: !hcaelB nwo t'nod I  
Summary: As Rukia contemplates Ichigo's leaving, she gets some sound advice from one of the last people she would have expected.

* * *

He had left. He had left and she hadn't told him. Time elapsed in odd ways between the two worlds and it wouldn't be too unexpected if she never saw him again. Their relationship couldn't possibly end that way, with so many things still to say.

A flash of pink hair distracted Rukia from her depressing thoughts and she drew back, a little quickly, as the Lieutenant almost head-butted her in the chin. "What're you thinking about, Sulky-chan?" Yachiru asked innocently.

"O-Oh, a friend, Kusajishi-fukutaicho." Rukia answered quickly, not expecting the child to understand.

"Oh! You're sad about Icchy leaving, right?"

Rukia paused at the girl's nickname for Ichigo. As someone who held pride in her ability to hide her emotions, she was unused to being seen through so easily. "Yes," she replied finally, and with a weary smile, "I'm sad that Icchy left."

"Why are you sad?"

Rukia glanced at the little girl oddly, caught unaware by the strange question, "What?"

"Why are you sad?" Yachiru asked again, "'Cause Icchy left and being sad won't help, you know."

"I... I had something I wanted to tell him."

"Then tell him when you see him next!" Yachiru scolded. The scene must have appeared infinitely odd to anyone watching, the small Eleventh Division Lieutenant lecturing a Shinigami twice her size, "Just make sure you see him again and you won't have to be sad." Rukia frowned as thoughts suddenly flooded her mind. She couldn't help how she felt but, then again, Yachiru's words held a good deal of truth as well. "You'll die someday, you know. Why waste time being sad?"

Rukia leaned forward and hugged the small girl, "You're very wise for your age, Kusajishi-fukutaicho."

"Nu-uh," the little girl said, giggling at the thought, "It's all stuff I learned from Ken-chan in Rukongai!"

Rukia stiffened and, for a few seconds, only saw the old, old eyes peering out from the young girl's face. They were eyes that had seen life, had seen loss, and had accepted them both, perhaps more than she had herself. "A-Ah." Rukia stammered, wondering what the girl could have seen in her years.

Before Rukia could say anything else, Yachiru had already pulled her to her feet, "Come on, Sulky-chan!" she yelled, "Old Shiro-chan might have some candy for me!"

* * *

A/N: Hi again. Just popping in with another drabble. 

This one I wrote so it could (depending on how you decided to read it) be read as either an IchiRuki pairing fic or an IchiRuki friendship fic. I'm not really a hardcore fan of this pairing either but you really can't deny that there are some deep emotional connections between the two. 

Please pardon the title pun. 

This is my third drabble; however, that is no excuse for it to suck. If it does, please don't hesitate to tell me.  
Please review, as feedback is always appreciated.

B-E


	4. Undue Inspiration

****

Further Down the Rabbit Hole

_Story 4: Undue Inspiration_

Rating: Teen for Safety  
Misc: General  
Pairings: None  
Warning: Very vague character death  
Disclaimer: Bleach own don't I.  
Summary: Poetry, for Isane, was a refuge but she couldn't help but feel that she could be better. What she needed was inspiration.

* * *

Kotetsu Isane had always fancied herself a bit of a poet. Not a very good poet perhaps, but a poet all the same. Poetry kept her sanity intact during those far-too-common nights when she was working alone, with only injured men and mental demons for company. It was her outlet, much like Iemura's diary or Unohana's tea; something she just couldn't do without. Maybe her love just made her problem inevitable.

**_The wind tends to sing  
Like there is no greater joy  
Than being homeless_**

She compared her paltry works to those that had touched her own soul and was so very disappointed. Regardless of how much or how she wrote, it always seemed so conventional, so trite. She found herself bored, disgusted even, with the staleness of her own work.

As every good poet – as every good artist – her heart longed to reach greater, grander, more evocative forms of expression; she pined for the ability to pierce to the heart and speak to the soul. So, unable to do much more, she wrote and wrote and wrote, hoping all the while for a spark, THE spark, of true inspiration.

**_Flowers are pretty  
But bend too easy in strife  
Please don't be afraid_**

Days came, days passed, but there was still no inspiration to be had. She watched the clouds and saw the stars; she did everything to find her muse, but still there was nothing. It was a sad state that she was in, with the will to write but seemingly not the ability. Her friends noticed – asked what was wrong. Nothing, she had said, just tired she guessed.

She began to doubt her ability to write at all. Every time her pen would touch paper, an unbearable sense of inadequacy would overwhelm her. She just wasn't good enough. She would never be good enough. Desperate now, she began showing her closest friends small snippets of her work. A stanza here, a quatrain there, small peeks and glimpses into her mind.

No one was abusive, or even nasty, as far as that went, but no one seemed too terribly inspired either. "It's good," she was told over and over again. In theory, that should have brought some comfort to her; in truth though, it didn't.

She didn't want to just be 'good', she wanted to inspire as others had inspired her. In time, she began to worry that she had become corrupt, had become a poet that wrote for others' approval and not the satisfaction of her own soul. Several weeks passed and she still remained 'good'. Eventually she couldn't help but wonder if her friends had lied to her about the quality of her work. It was only logical, she thought, that at least one person would be inspired by even mundane poetry.

Some days, she didn't even know if she wanted a good or bad response. It would have been so much easier if someone would have just said, "Hey, Isane. You're terrible, the worst -ever-, a complete disgrace to poetry. Never write again." Then, she could cry and get over it. Then, she could dash her notebook to the ground and deem herself a failure. At least, then, there'd be something to accept.

It was the uncertainty that killed you.

She felt trapped within herself, her bottled emotions hellishly ripping and tearing at her very soul. Nothing gave her solace. Then, one unwanted day, inspiration struck.

**_Rabbit-flower wilts  
And lovingly fades away  
Here, no eyes are dry_**

The newly-appointed Captain placed her pen back on the desk and sadly re-examined her verse. It struck her as true, much more than any before, but, still she wasn't pleased. Isane couldn't help but feel that she would have given up all the pens, paper, inspiration, and poetry in the world, if only that could have forced the truth to be just a little less true.

* * *

A/N: Hey everyone.

This drabble hits a little closer to home for me than some of the other stuff I've done but I hope every writer, artist, or actual poet can see something of themselves in Isane here. If you can't, then congratulations, friend, you're a far better writer than I. Oh, and if it wasn't too clear, the 'undue inspiration' here is the death of Unohana. Often it takes some real tragedy or pain to find your muse, unfortunately. Pain makes every man a poet. Oh, and excuse the haiku's. They were just the only type of poetry I knew that had a distinctly Japanese feel to them.

This is my fourth drabble, however, that is no excuse for it to suck. If it does, please don't hesitate to tell me.  
Please review as feedback is always appreciated.

**Exile.**


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